A Picture Perfect Crime
by Samwise Baggins
Summary: "I'm not given to outbursts of brotherly compassion. You know what happened to the other one." – Mycroft Holmes
1. Boredom

Chapter Title: Boredom

Author: Sam

Story: A Picture Perfect Crime: 01 of ?

Series: Side of the Angels

Rating: M: Abuse, Kidnapping, Violence, Sexual Innuendoes, Language

Summary: "I'm not given to outbursts of brotherly compassion. You know what happened to the other one." – Mycroft Holmes

Spoiler: Yeah, seasons 1 – 3 of Sherlock, including the mini-Episode.

Category: Crime-related; Drama; Science; AU

Setting: AU: Just before Christmas, 2015: London

Disclaimer: _Sherlock_ was written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, and Steve Thompson and produced by Sue Vertue, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, Beryl Vertue, Rebecca Easton, Bethan Jones, Kathy Nettleship, Charlotte Ashby, Elaine Cameron, and Susie Liggat. It is based on the original series created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am in no way connected with these people, and I do not claim ownership of these characters, lands, or names. I have borrowed them to share a story, and most likely not a story any of them would have written, had they had the time or no. I am making no money from this and it is just for my entertainment and that of free entertainment to a select group. Thank you.

Distribution: Please ask first?

Note: n/a

Feedback: Yes, please, especially constructive.

xxx

'_Rain-soaked gusts whipped through the night laden streets, stirring a thick, chill mist round the ankles of the occasional passerby.'_

"How tripe. Might as well say _'It was a dark and stormy night.'_ I thought you'd be a bit more creative by now, what with this daily blogging."

John Watson, late of the British Infantry and practicing general physician, straightened to the stiff creak of new leather upholstery. His brown-touched grey eyes snapped forward, staring at nothing physically visible, and his mouth firmed as his shoulders gave a minute heave of emotion. Without acknowledging the bored-toned baritone accompanying the sound of a leather sole striking hard wood interspersed with a dull thud and sharp click, John reread the opening sentence to his latest blog update. Finally, the grey-haired man slipped his clever fingers from the keys of his laptop and let his worn hands drop limply to his lap. He drew a deep, slow breath and let it out in an equally controlled manner.

In a soft, reasonable-sounding tone, he responded, "well, it _was_ dark - - quite so. And it _was_ storming, too, as I recall. Turned my brolly wrong way out."

Behind him, his best friend and former flatmate stopped his restless pacing and came to stand directly behind John. Taller, lankier, with dark curls, noticeably high cheekbones, and unusually almond-shaped oddly-colored eyes, Sherlock Holmes appeared the opposite of averagely built, comfortable looking John Watson.

Turning his head, John glanced over his friend and frowned. "Just because you've got a walking cast this morning doesn't mean you're to walk constantly." John stood, the subtle squeak of the chair signaling another too-brief quiet session ending. "And when last did you have your medication?"

The taller man frowned at the shorter, tilting his head slightly to the right. He blinked his pale mixed-colored eyes and appeared to puzzle over John's words. They stared at one another for a stretch of time then Sherlock straightened his head, limped two paces to the left, and briskly sat down on a paisley divan. Without a word, he lifted his cumbersome plaster-covered left ankle and carefully placed the foot on the matching paisley ottoman provided for such a purpose, letting his cane lean against the ottoman. Sherlock turned his face up to John, eyes widening slightly, a look of guileless innocence reflected there. "I missed the last two doses." At John's widening eyes and opening mouth, Sherlock added, "I can't think properly on that stuff. I'd rather have the pain."

John snapped his mouth shut and deepened his frown, but did not protest. One had to choose which battles to fight with Sherlock, as one rarely won _any_ battle with the sociopathic genius. Lowering his chin, John cleared his throat with a brief cough. "Well then," he lifted his head, gave a brief jolt forward of his shoulders, and slipped onto a stuffed chair across from his friend. "You're bored then." He nodded once, cleared his throat again and sighed. "But you can't go out on a case with your broken ankle."

"There's always your laptop, John." Sherlock sat at the edge of his chosen seat, hands folded lightly, right foot bouncing quickly in an unconscious display of anxiety.

With another soft sigh, John closed his eyes briefly then reopened them. "You want me," he pronounced slowly, carefully, "to go out in the field with the laptop while you watch from here, right?" At Sherlock's nod, John shook his head. "Can't . . . I can't do that, Sherlock."

Puzzled and frowning, Sherlock sat back and tilted his head, "why not?"

John's eyes widened and he stared at Sherlock, more amazed than ever he was with his friend's magical-seeming deductive abilities, "really?" He shook his head slightly but did not break eye contact, "because I am babysitting, Sherlock. That's why."

"What?" Sherlock tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he processed that statement. Hitting upon an answer to his apparent liking, he shook his head briefly. "Her? She's sleeping . . . never know you were out." He leaned forward a bit, protests met to his satisfaction.

But not to John's. The elder, shorter man turned wide, incredulous eyes on the other. "Sleeping?" He sat back as if by furthering himself from his friend he might understand Sherlock's unexpectedly flawed thinking. John stuttered "never . . . know . . . what . . . uh . . . oh . . . Sherlock!" He leaned forward, hands gripping the armrests of his chair, voice a harsh whisper. "What if she wakes up? What if she needs me?" His voice remained a whisper but rose in decibel with his indignation.

Sherlock spread his hands slightly and offered a minor shrug. "I'll look after her," he said, tone calm, reasonable, even detached.

"No!" John shot to his feet with the force of his shout then glanced to the door with a guilty wince. Modulating his tone, yet no less adamant, he insisted "Oh, no, Sherlock. You can't even look after yourself."

"I can so," came the surprised reply. "I have done . . ."

John spoke over his friend's voice, "No. No you can't." He glanced at the parlor door again then back to Sherlock. "You call running straight into traffic looking after yourself?"

Sherlock frowned, his voice lowering as he attempted to defend his actions. "I was chasing a fleeing . . ."

"Right into the path of an oncoming services lorry," John cut him off, voice hardening, eyes falling to rest on Sherlock's cast. "You're lucky you came out with only a broken ankle and some lacerations, Sherlock!" He sat back down, hands steady on the arm rests. He gave a shake of his head and stated, firmly, "no. There is absolutely no way I'm leaving you to watch over my eighteen month old daughter."

The parlor door swing open with the whisper of well-oiled hinges. In stepped a woman of middle years with neatly groomed short blonde tresses and intelligent, watchful blue eyes. She supported a small blonde sleepy-eyed toddler in pink pyjamas on one hip, an overstuffed nappy sack on the opposite shoulder. Voice tinged with amusement, she frowned at the men and said "thank you, boys, for waking the baby."

Eyes reflecting his sudden remorse, John pushed to his feet and briskly crossed the room. Placing a tender hand on his daughter's back, he bestowed a quick, apologetic kiss on his wife's quirking lips. "Sorry, Mary. Sherlock's bored."

"Aye, I can see that," she nodded, unable to hide her smile any longer. "Can't go running about into trouble or traffic, so he'll wake the house." She shot the injured man a grin of what seemed to be malicious delight. "And just as I'm to pop off for the afternoon, as well." Her voice relayed kind amusement for all her stern words.

Sherlock leaned back against the divan cushions and lifted his shoulders in a brief shrug of detached agreement. John tried to suppress a sigh and avoided glaring at his friend, though it took some effort. Mary laughed in fond amusement.

"Well, you want her awake, Sherlock," she claimed as she strode across to the seated man, "you tend her." Mary passed the child into the unresisting arms of a startled looking Sherlock.

Worry sprang to John's eyes at the delegation of responsibility, but as he opened his mouth to protest his wife of three years turned and added "now you can baby sit them both. I've errands, as planned."

John stammered and Mary's grin widened as she added "won't be long . . . back before supper." Leaning over, she slipped the heavy nappy sack onto the divan next to her guest, patted the head of both her now wakeful baby and a surprised Sherlock, turned to give John a quick buss on the cheek, and strode out the parlor door before the men could gather themselves to respond. "Ta ra," she called and the front door shut with a firm click.

John looked at Sherlock, who stared back, their eyes meeting in mutual bewilderment at the vagaries of a woman's mind. Then both turned their attention to young, industrious Victoria Watson as she made herself busy twisting the top button on Sherlock's shirt. The round fastener popped off amid delighted giggles from the toddler and the men once more exchanged glances, sharing their incomprehension on just how a female mind worked.

xxx

John sighed as he glanced at Sherlock over the auto bonnet. "Right. We're only here for a change of scene, mind. We're not here to take on any clients." He nodded, satisfied he'd made his point to his friend. Reaching into the backseat of the auto, John unhooked Victoria from her carriage seat and fastened her into a carrier. He slid his arms in the arm holes and secured her to his chest then reached for the nappy sack. Glancing across the vehicle once more, suspicion rising at Sherlock's continued quiet, "Well?" John demanded of his friend.

Pulling out his sturdy cane and leaning heavily on it, Sherlock merely studied the front facade of 221 Baker Street, observant eyes taking in every nuance, every minor change.

"Sherlock!" John said and his friend turned his attention to the smaller man. John nodded, straightening. "Right. No clients. We're just popping in to say hello to Mrs. Hudson."

Rolling his eyes and looking back towards the building, Sherlock answered "yes, of course."

John paused, glanced hard at his friend, then nodded. "Right," he drawled, trying to determine if Sherlock was agreeing or merely placating him. With a soft frown, the older man moved around the auto and onto the pathway before the row of buildings.

Sherlock limped forward and John fell in behind him as the taller man used his key to let them into the building. Sherlock led John to the open door of Mrs. Hudson's flat.

An older woman, perhaps in her sixties with a wide welcoming smile on her friendly face, stood up from her seat by the kitchen table. "Sherlock! John! Come in. Come in." She hurried to the pair and threw her arms around Sherlock for a warm hug.

His mouth quirked briefly and a softness came to his eyes, but he pulled away and straightened. "Don't fuss, Mrs. Hudson."

"Of course not," Mrs. Hudson agreed with another smile, her voice light and joyous. She patted his chest. Surprise rounded her eyes as her fingers slipped to the unhooked button hole and she looked at the dangling threads from the violently removed missing button. "Oh. Shall I fix that for you, dear? Just this once, mind. I'm not your housekeeper."

"Mary sews them back on," John offered with a twitch of his lips. "Victoria has some fascination with twisting them off."

"Oh." Mrs. Hudson spun around and moved to hug John briefly. She smiled at the toddler and started fussing over the little girl in delight. In return the child seemed to absorb every flattering coo.

"The curtains are different in John's room." Sherlock's neutral tone drew all attention.

John's mouth tilted downward slightly. "It's not my room . . ."

At the same time, Mrs. Hudson waved a hand and chuckled. "Oh, Sherlock. You have to move on, dear."

Sherlock looked towards the stairs as John stammered "we weren't a couple!"

"Live and let live, I say." Mrs. Hudson soothed, patting John's arm.

His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched.

"Down! Down! Down!" Victoria swung her legs and flailed her arms, reminding John she was getting far too big to be carried like an infant. He release the little girl from her confines, placing her feet on the linoleum floor, but grabbed her chubby little hand before she could wander into mischief.

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson turned to Sherlock. "You've got a new flatmate, Sherlock . . . only supposed to be here until something else turns up." She turned to John as Sherlock limped to the steps and slowly pulled his way up.

John nodded and hurried to follow his friend, worried the man would stumble on the narrow steps with the bulky cast and unfamiliar cane. He needn't have worried it seemed. Sherlock navigated the hazard with apparent ease and opened the door to flat 221B.

Except for a good dusting and recent hoovering, the flat appeared unchanged, with Sherlock's incomprehensible disorganized clutter still strewn about in haphazard fashion.

The sound of soft steps came from the stairwell of the upper bedroom. Sherlock didn't shift his attention from studying his flat. Rather he took two limping steps further inside and calmly stated "you had a row with your mother, Doctor Hooper."

"How . . . how did you know?" Molly Hooper, forensic pathologist at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, stopped at the foot of the stairs. Her long, medium-brown hair hung loose almost to her waist, and she was dressed in a soft pink, lavender, and cream running suit.

Sherlock turned his head to look directly at Molly. "When your relationship with Tom ended two years ago, you moved in with your mother, as you'd previously given up your flat upon moving in with him. Now you've moved out of her house three weeks ago with plans to only be here briefly." He turned a frown on the woman and lifted his free hand to gesture, "yet you have brought your cat with you. If there had been no harsh feelings, you would have entrusted the cat to your mother's keeping temporarily. In addition, you wouldn't have moved into a temporary lodging situation while looking for a permanent arrangement."

Molly's dark brown eyes widened in her narrow face and her mouth opened slightly. "I've kept Toby in my room. How'd you know he's here?"

With an exaggerated sniff, Sherlock said "freshly showered, clothes recently laundered, by the smell and appearance last night. Cat hair on your trouser cuffs, both legs. Cats often rub their preferred humans in a figure eight around the legs. The cat . . ." he paused and his eyes flicked up the steps then back to Molly, "Toby . . . is upstairs."

"Wait a minute, Sherlock." John broke in, eyes wide in amazement, though by then in their relationship, Sherlock's awareness of a cat in his own flat wasn't the revelation that surprised the older man. As everyone turned their attention to John, and he in turn tried to keep his squirming toddler under control, John asked, "How'd you know it was Molly living here? Mrs. Hudson never said."

At the question, Sherlock appeared to become annoyed. He turned away from his friend and moved to his favorite divan. "I saw her look out the upstairs window when we first arrived." He practically threw himself onto the seat, not hiding the disapproval in his voice. "As usual, John, you see but do not observe. After seven years training, one would think you'd have learned."

Long used to his best friend's derogatory manner, John merely firmed his lips and tightened his hold on Victoria's small wrist. He broke eye contact with Sherlock long enough to dig about in the overstuffed nappy sack, pull out a bizarre seeming jumble of colored objects attached to a large plastic ring, and hand it to his squirming daughter, who promptly sat in the middle of the floor and began to randomly flip through the flat shapes. Finally, John looked up, having to concede at least to himself that Sherlock was correct, if rude: John had looked straight at the flat and never noticed Molly looking out the window.

"We've come for a visit," he announced then added sternly, as Sherlock reached for his long unattainable laptop, "not work."

Sherlock didn't bother looking up, rather opening his laptop and starting it up.

xxx

To Be Continued in Chapter Two: A Thousand Words


	2. A Thousand Words

Chapter Title: A Thousand Words

Author: Sam

Story: A Picture Perfect Crime: 02 of ?

Series: Side of the Angels

Setting: AU: Just before Christmas, 2015: London

Note:

xxx

Stretching out upon his favorite perch, Sherlock lifted his newly casted leg to the armrest of his chosen divan. He pulled the laptop onto his stomach as he typed his password to access the device, ignoring John's protests that they _'would not be solving crimes, today . . . recall that I have Victoria here!'_ The consulting detective also ignored the slightly nervous seeming presence of Dr. Hooper and the delightedly giggling little Victoria Watson. The only person he deigned to recognize was Mrs. Hudson, his long-term landlady, and that was only after she slipped a plump pillow under his ankle.

"Oh, mustn't dent that cast, dear. Here you are." The woman offered a motherly smile to the much younger man and he returned a bare ghost of a lip quirk in her general direction.

Finally, he looked up from his laptop and frowned, annoyance flashing in his odd-colored eyes. "Do be quiet, John. I can't concentrate with you whining."

John Watson stiffened noticeably, shoulders thrown back and back ramrod straight as if taking a blow. His mouth pursed, his eyes narrowed, and he bit out, military-toned, "I will _not_ have you hare off while we're baby-sitting, Sherlock." The physician strode to his best friend's side, heels striking the hardwood floor in an angry tattoo. "I won't endanger her!"

His friend's words seemed to break through Sherlock's preoccupation at last. His long-fingered hands stopped tapping at the keys and he raised his own eyes to meet John's brown-grey ones. Tone neutral sounding, his displeasure at the accusation was evident in the rigid set of his shoulders and his soft frown as he replied "I have never willingly endangered a child, John."

Guilt welled in the smaller man and he threw himself into his regular chair of old. "Yes, I know, Sherlock." He let the unspoken apology run through his voice. "Well, perhaps a level one or two." At Sherlock's opening mouth, John shook his head, tone hardening once more. "I mean it, Sherlock. I know those are boring cases, but there's no way either of us are going into the field so there's no point getting much higher than a three or four. Besides, you've got to have the medicine with all the walking you've done today. A one or two will be no hardship to solve even on the narcotics." John slipped a hand into Victoria's nappy sack and pulled out Sherlock's prescription bottle.

"Here," Molly's hand stretched out with a glass of water, breaking through the tension. She offered a gentle smile, worry reflected in her dark brown eyes. The woman often went unnoticed in the background and this time had been no exception as she'd retrieved drinks for the small group.

Sherlock's eyes shifted to fix on Molly and he paused for a minute before reaching out and taking the proffered drink. Holding up a hand, he sent John a glare as the surprised older man fumbled the pill bottle open and retrieved a solitary tablet, passing it over. Quickly, Sherlock swallowed the medicine with a gulp of water then handed the glass back to Molly and turned back to the laptop.

"Oh, John," Mrs. Hudson reached for a glass offered by Molly and sent her a smile, "Thank you, Molly dear." She glanced back at her former tenant, "I've heard you've updated your blog? My computer's gone down, and I haven't had a chance to look it over."

John smiled at the older woman and nodded, relaxing his stiff posture as he accepted a drink. "Thanks, Molly. Yes, I've changed the appearance and fixed the counter again." He sipped his water and glanced over his still cheerfully playing toddler.

An incomprehensible rumble broke from Sherlock's throat drawing all attention, but rather than explain himself, Sherlock typed something and began to turn the laptop towards Mrs. Hudson. He froze, eyes widening instead. "John . . . do you normally get photographs in your comments?"

"What?" John set his glass on the nearby table, bounded out of his seat, and pulled over Sherlock's laptop. He sank to the floor by the divan and began scrolling through the replies received concerning his regular blogs. As he sat positioned so Sherlock could read over his shoulder, the other man appeared content to withhold any complaint about having his device usurped.

In response to the latest crime posting, which John had updated two days prior, there were already over a hundred replies received. However, third from the most recent seemed an odd one: simply the picture of a china doll in an old-fashioned nun's black habit with an over-sized wooden rosary wrapped around its waist. This particular _'comment'_ had been left twice in the last forty minutes.

"I've never had a response like that before," John clarified, wondering just who would send such an odd picture to his site. He glanced over the two more recent comments, but neither gave a clue as to the identity or purpose of the doll posting.

The photo suddenly appeared in the comments section again and, before John could react, Sherlock reached a long arm over to tap a quick reply. _'Who is this?'_

Within a few seconds the doll picture appeared a fourth time, accompanied by several photographs of buildings.

Sherlock frowned fiercely, sitting up and cursing softly. Molly flushed and Mrs. Hudson clicked her tongue against her teeth. John whirled around, surprised by his friend's reaction to what seemed a very timely puzzle.

"What? What's wrong, Sherlock?"

The other man glared at John and ground out, "you've got me medicated. In twenty minutes I won't be thinking clearly enough and now you present me this wonderful treat to pass the time. Shame on you, John Watson." He sounded more distracted than annoyed, though the undercurrent suggested some slight irritation.

Molly slipped down to the floor beside John. "What treat?"

The trio seemed unaware that Mrs. Hudson sank into John's customary chair and pulled little Victoria closer, delving into the large nappy sack for more toys and a baggy of snacks.

"This," Sherlock waved his hand towards the series of photographs, which had been added to by another string of four building pictures. Five photographs containing groups of buildings appeared as the next comment.

"How odd," Molly murmured, her customary shyness around Sherlock evaporating at the interesting, if bizarre, puzzle. "None of the buildings are the same one. Could they be crime scenes?"

Suddenly a series of twelve pictures appeared, but the pattern had ominously changed. These weren't buildings; they were sleeping animals. "Not crime scenes then?" questioned Molly.

Another twelve building photos appeared, drawing Sherlock to lean even closer to his laptop as John held it for the three to see. "Eight, four, five, twelve, twelve?" Five buildings once more appeared. Finally, four photographs of people, all with a bright red _'x'_ through them, posted: a curly-haired boy, a middle-aged woman, _'a man in an ugly dress,'_ as stated by John, and an unsmiling male youth.

The comments section started flooding with blog follower reactions to the peculiar display questioning the purpose and jeering at the unknown author, who had not signed his posts.

"Thirty-three seconds apart."

"What?" John turned to look at Sherlock half-reclining behind him.

Sherlock flicked his fingers at the variety of picture-posts. "The time stamps on those are thirty-three seconds apart exactly. Rather precise of him."

John scrolled back through the odd comments, ignoring the immense flurry of recent activity on his blog. Verifying the timing of the posts, his lips compressed and his grey-brown eyes darted over the many photographs. "After he got our attention, he deliberately posted at intervals," John confirmed Sherlock's statement. "So, he wanted us to see what he sent."

"And that means our poster has a reason for those specific pictures." Sherlock slipped his smart phone from his pocket and brought up John's blog, capturing each photo individually. In a flurry of typing, the consulting detective sent the photos to his printer. As he meticulously looked over each picture a frown settled across his sharp-boned features and reflected in his oddly tilted eyes.

John handed Sherlock's laptop to Molly and rose to his feet. He hurried to the printer, his footfalls sounding between the soft whir of the mechanics and the rustle of pages spilling over the paper guard; he retrieved the photos and carefully stacked them.

Several minutes passed as John collected pages and Sherlock and Molly reviewed the actual posts. Molly pulled over a pad of paper and pen normally used for free-thinking. She began writing points of observation including the thirty-three second intervals and the doubtful idea that the buildings had to deal with crime scenes.

When the printer fell silent, John grabbed the last sheet and moved to sit on the floor by Molly and Sherlock's divan once more. He rifled through the print-outs until he settled on the four crossed-out people. "Victims?" John queried, holding up the boy's photograph.

"No," Sherlock responded without looking up. "All of them are alive."

Surprise widened John's eyes and he turned around to stare at his best friend. "How do you know?"

Sherlock let out a snort and gestured vaguely at the boy's photo. "That's me. The other boy is Mycroft. The man is my uncle Rudy."

"Targets then?" Molly asked, before John could question Uncle Rudy's choice of outfit. Her voice reflected worry for the Holmes family.

"A possibility, but why those four targets? And why in combination with those buildings and animals?" Sherlock replied, tone neutral though his eyes had brightened and his finger scrolled at a rapid pace.

Molly nodded and asked, "what do the buildings have in common?" She put the notepad aside and helped John sort the photos into five stacks: individual buildings, groups of buildings, animals, people, and the lone doll. "Or the groups? Are they different towns or the same one from different views?" Her voice sounded breathless as she seemed to become wrapped up in the mystery.

John glanced over at his contented daughter as Mrs. Hudson kept her occupied. Smiling for the older woman, he turned back to the print-outs. "Right, there are five groups here. The building groups look like different towns. The style of buildings aren't the same."

Leaning over slightly to look at the larger photographs, Sherlock nodded. "You're learning, John."

Mouth tightening, eyes narrowing slightly, John stiffened but stayed silent.

"Those pictures are in the wrong order." Sherlock's voice rose in pitch, anxiety apparent in his tone. "Why did you change them around?" He reached over and scooped up the photos, his hands flying as he rearranged them, frowning fiercely. "The poster sent them in a specific order and specific groups." He thrust the stack at John with a glare. "I need to see them."

With a sigh, John stood once more and moved to the wall. He glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock, who stared intently, and Molly, who looked avidly curious. John turned back to the wall and began hanging the pictures in the six groups, using a chair to reach near the ceiling for the first row. Finally, he stepped back to view the collection but moved to sit when Sherlock made a low rumble in his throat.

Amusement coloring her voice, Molly asked "did you just growl?"

Sherlock ignored her. He shifted as if he wanted to stand but the cast on his ankle seemed to remind him of his current limitation. "The prison was second, not third, John. First came the doll then the prison."

John nodded but Molly rose faster than he could and stepped onto the chair to fix the pictures. When she turned, Sherlock seemed to be contemplating the new arrangement, but his eyes had begun to droop due to the narcotic John had given him. Molly looked to John; he shook his head. He knew that Sherlock would want to continue no matter how sleepy he got.

xxx

To Be Continued in Chapter Three: What's in a Name?


	3. What's in a Name?

Chapter Title: What's in a Name?

Author: Sam

Story: A Picture Perfect Crime: 03 of ?

Series: Side of the Angels

Setting: AU: Just before Christmas, 2015: London

Note:

xxx

Turning, John studied the wall display. "A doll . . . a mine . . . I see four or five cathedrals . . . I don't see a prison, Sherlock."

"That's the Cowbridge Town Hall in Wales. It contains the Cowbridge Prison Museum," Sherlock informed them, his vast knowledge of all things crime-related coming handy. His eyes roved the pictures though his focus seemed impeded. "And that mine is in Cardiff, as well."

"How do you know?" asked Molly from her perch on the chair across the room.

Sherlock focused his eyes on the forensic pathologist and said "my grandparents took us as children. Mycroft nearly tripped down an air vent." He began to scroll through sites on his smart phone, apparently ignoring the others in the room once more.

"Right," John stood and walked over to stand by Molly, studying the pictures. "That's the Dylan Thomas Centre."

Molly gestured to the last building in the top-most row. "The Doctor Who Exhibition Centre in Cardiff."

"What's that?" John turned, surprised as he detected a pattern in the pictures.

Annoyance sounded in Sherlock's voice as he replied, "an amusement exhibition based on a popular television series concerning an alien traveler through time and space. It's been running since the 1960's."

Stunned, John whirled around. "I know _'Doctor Who'_. I didn't think you did."

"Well, not personally," slight amusement colored Sherlock's voice. "If not the show, what are you questioning?" Something about the detective's demeanor told John that Sherlock already knew the answer.

"Four museums in Wales . . . three of them in Cardiff. . ."

Sherlock nodded his agreement.

"Wouldn't it make more sense to put the doll with the Cathedrals?" Molly asked. "Or is the point that it's an antique doll? Or is it just the poster's signature?"

The three studied the groupings in silence for several minutes before Molly added, "four mice? Or is it seven rodents?" She touched the fourth animal picture, a small brown mouse.

"Garden dormouse," Sherlock gave the animal its common name.

That seemed to draw Mrs. Hudson's attention and she looked up, saying "on the endangered species list, that one." Her eyes darted over the animals and she gestured to the eighth. "The sea otter. Also nearly extinct."

Sherlock pulled himself straighter on the divan. "Number eleven is the European Mink . . . also on the list."

"And the Palla's cat is the last picture. Are these all endangered?" Molly turned to question Sherlock, who appeared to be fighting to stay awake. "What do endangered animals have to do with an antique doll, Welsh museums, and a number of cathedrals and other buildings?"

Surprise lit Sherlock's face and, despite his drug-induced lethargy, he grabbed his cane and struggled to his feet. "Of course. I should have seen it sooner! It's a code. Oh, wonderful!" Excitement fairly vibrated through him.

"Something to do with Cardiff," guessed John, frowning in concern for his unsteady friend. He did not, however, try to stop Sherlock from coming closer.

Nodding, Sherlock stopped on the other side of the chair Molly still stood on. "Possibly. If each group is a number we have . . ."

John jumped in, "eight – four – five – twelve – twelve – five – four."

"Not a cell number," Molly said. "There aren't any twelves in the dial."

"Letters," Sherlock stated, sounding certain. He pulled out a felt-tip marker from a cup of writing utensils on the nearby desk and wrote _'H'_ on the photograph of the prison, stretching to reach the top row. He then went down the rows, marking the first picture of each with a letter.

John shook his head as Sherlock finished. "H-D-E-L-L-E-D? What's that mean?" He recalled his mistaken Morse code up in Dartmoor five years back.

"Idelle . . ." Sherlock became noticeably pale and John sprang forward to clasp the taller man's arm, tugging him back towards the divan. Sherlock pulled his arm away with a low growl. He lifted his hand to touch the photo of the doll. "Sister . . . The doll is part of the first row, bringing the number to nine! The last four aren't part of the original message. She tacked those on as an afterthought. It's a personal message." His eyes rapidly scanned back and forth over the pictures as if trying to read some hidden text. "This wasn't sent to you, John. It's meant for me."

John drew his breath in sharply. "Moriarity?"The implications sent horror through the former military man. The consulting criminal had wreaked havoc in their lives for two years before faking his suicide. After two years he'd come back and announced it publicly. In the three years since, the British government had been _'holding its breath'_ so to speak while Sherlock periodically went out looking for his psychotic nemesis, unsuccessfully thus far.

Sherlock pulled his hand from the wall and turned an annoyed look on the older man. "I told . . ." he stopped and his eyes widened. "No!" He whirled back to the pictures. "Mycroft wouldn't be so stupid!"

Molly finally broke in, frowning softly at Sherlock's reference to his older brother. "Who is Sister Idelle? And how was Mycroft stupid?"

Ignoring her questions, Sherlock began to fix the letters on the pictures, crossing off the _'H'_ on the prison and placing an _'I'_ on the doll, instead. He then crossed off the _'D'_ on the picture of himself as a child. Pausing, he scanned the photographs. Excitement ratcheted his voice as he raised the marker again. "There's more to this than the primary alpha-numeric code. There's a reason these specific pictures were chosen." Sherlock wrote a _'C'_ on the picture of the prison museum in Cowbridge and another on the mine from Cardiff, as well as the exhibition center in Cardiff. "John, where's the Dylan Thomas Centre?"

John thought a moment, watching as his friend impatiently scrolled on his phone one-handed. "Swansea," John said. "Mary and I visited it. And that picture after is of a poet's house in Harlech . . . Wales, again."

Sherlock stopped writing, a frown pulling his face into a somber mask. He looked over the top row and shook his head. "No!" He scrawled a line through each letter, except the _'I'_ on the antique doll. His eyes ran back and forth rapidly in the eerie reading motion he often displayed when thinking.

A long moment passed as the group silently tried to figure out the secondary code.

Suddenly, Sherlock screamed "Shut up! Shut up . . . shut up! You're all thinking too loud!" As Victoria responded with a startled cry, Sherlock tried to pace away from the wall but stumbled as he injudiciously left his cane behind and over-balanced on his injured ankle.

Instinctively, John sprang forward to support the other man though he glanced over at his whimpering child, worry coursing through his body.

"Sherlock, please don't shout. You've scared the baby," Mrs. Hudson scolded as she sent an exasperated glare towards her tenant. She scooped up the toddler into a hug. "And did you think that maybe the letter is the first of the name of the building, and not the town it's in?"

"Or perhaps places your Sister Idelle has been to?" Molly asked, her voice tentative after Sherlock's reaction.

Annoyance flashed across the young man's face, but his odd-colored eyes scanned the pictures again; he didn't bother to apologize. Scrolling on the phone once more, he glanced at the screen then at the wall of photographs and limped carefully back to the wall. "Still a _'C'_ for the Cowbridge Town Hall," he rewrote the _'C'_ on the picture. On the mine he had recalled, he wrote _'R'_, followed by a _'D'_ on the next photograph. "What's the name of the poet's house?"

When John paused to think, Sherlock glared at him and insisted "John, the name."

"Something with a _'Y'_. It's in Welsh, Sherlock. I don't speak Welsh." John moved to pick up his now sobbing daughter, patting her back as she laid her head on his shoulder and stuck her thumb firmly in her mouth, tears running down her pudgy face. He shot a look of pure annoyance at his friend.

Sherlock merely turned back and wrote a _'Y'_ on the photo then put a _'D'_ on the last in that row. "We need the rest." He flicked his thumb over the scroll on his phone and typed on the pad. "Searching museums in Wales," he said, his voice sounding absent-minded. He smiled suddenly, eyes widening as he apparently felt a jolt of energy. "You may not speak Welsh, John, but I do. That first row is most likely _Caerdynn_, Welsh for Cardiff. The second building is Aberconwy House." Another flick of his thumb brought another satisfied smirk. "And Errdig Hall, Wrexham. The green building second to last is Dolaucothi Gold Mines, another place my grandparents insisted we visit." When he had finished putting on the first letters, the top line read _I-C-A-E-R-D-Y-D-D_. Satisfaction seemed to radiate through the tall detective.

Molly pulled out her own phone. "I'm checking the endangered species list, as four of them are on there. We have the garden dormouse fourth in. Eighth is the sea otter and eleventh is European mink. Last is the Palla's cat." She continued trying to match pictures from the listed animals to the wall, but there were thousands of names to go through.

John sighed, lips pressed firm, as he walked over, still cuddling Victoria, and took the marker from Sherlock. He gestured to the divan. "Sit, Sherlock. I can write these." Before the man could respond, John pulled over a second chair and stepped up on it.

His friend merely grabbed his cane, still scrolling, and moved back to his original seat, sinking down and positioning his casted ankle on the pillow once more. "The second row is a problem," Sherlock seemed distressed as his eyes drooped. Apparently he had more trouble fighting his medications while sitting. "All of those cathedrals would be named _'Cathedral Church of. . .'_ Perhaps the beginning of the rest of the name?"

"Right," John responded and pulled out his own phone to begin researching the religious edifices. "None of these are in Wales," he murmured then cleared his throat and said louder "These aren't in Wales. I'm checking throughout England now."

"I'm checking only mammal lists, since all of the animals are mammals." Molly called out. There seemed to be a match on her search, so she pointed to the photo right of the sea otter. "That's called a dingiso."

Nodding, John put a 'D' on the appropriate picture then scanned the revealed letters. "Three blanks, a 'G', two blanks, a 'D' and an 'S', two blanks, an 'E' and a 'P'." He shook his head and went back to scanning cathedrals before smiling and writing 'H' next to the second cathedral. "Cathedral Church of the Holy and Undivided Trinity in Cambridgeshire. Oh!" He wrote an 'S' on the fourth. "Also in Cambridgeshire: Cathedral Church of St. Peter, St. Paul, and St. Andrew. That gives us a blank, an 'H', a blank, and an 'S'."

Eyes moving to the second row of photographs, Sherlock studied the four cathedrals then shook his head. "The second one is Ely Cathedral in Cambridgeshire," he said, his voice softer than before, his eyes slightly unfocused.

John glanced back at Sherlock then at the pictures. He searched his phone and noted the official name of the cathedral. "Cathedral Church of the Holy and Undivided Trinity," he reaffirmed his earlier identification. Frown matching Sherlock's, he typed in 'Ely Cathedral,' and the same picture, from the exact same angle, popped up. Softly, John murmured, "she used common names, not official names?" Quickly he typed in the name of the fourth cathedral and came up with the common name 'Peterborough Cathedral'. With a sigh, he glanced at the photographs and wrote a second letter on each of those he'd identified, so the second row read D &amp; blank-H &amp; E-blank-S &amp; P. He turned to Sherlock trying to keep annoyance out of his voice; John didn't like having someone correcting him constantly, as Sherlock was inclined to do. "Can you work on the third row?"

Sherlock shrugged and glanced over the five groups of buildings then started searching with his phone.

"Don't tell me you've got crime scenes all over Wales!"

The exasperated voice of Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade brought the trio whirling around, none of them having noticed when Mrs. Hudson let in the brown-haired medium-built law enforcement officer. With a shake of his head, a frown firmly in place, Greg strode into the room and right over to the wall of photos, a forgotten folder in his hand. Pointing at a pair of pictures in the fifth row, he said "That's Caerleon College and that one's the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama. What's happened, then?" He turned and fixed Sherlock with a gimlet stare.

John sighed, "Hello, Greg. We've received a puzzle on my blog." He glanced back at the wall and gently rocked Victoria against his shoulder. "Sister Idelle sent them, we think, and we're trying to work it out."

Sherlock frowned suddenly and turned to Greg, his voice sounding tired and grumpy as he challenged "What are you doing here? John won't let me help out with my ankle."

xxx

Continued in Chapter Four: when written


End file.
